


Shared Space

by AnnaofAza



Series: the sleep series [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Come to bed," Cas murmured softly, patting the other side gently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shared Space

It was strange to see how vulnerable his other self was, full of complete and utter defeat. Dean wouldn’t recognize this look until nearly a year later, eyes pitch black and a burning itch on his arm. He’s stripped to nothing until all he can be is honest. Honest and _broken._

But for now, Dean watches, mind still reeling from that _Sam said yes._ That’s something he’s never truly feared, looked in the face until now.

Yet, his future self had looked him in the eye and admitted that he was _wrong._ He _begged_ for Dean to say yes. That’s when Dean knew when this was serious. Maybe this was Zachariah’s screwed up little world that he pulled the strings on, but the emotion in those familiar green eyes was _real._ It was pure desperation and no hope at all, because Dean would choose the wrong choice again, end the world, and let his brother run to the devil.

The door slammed, rattling on its hinges, and Dean let himself cringe.

He looked around. Since he was apparantely going on the mission tomorrow, he ought to get some rest. But the floor didn’t look very comfortable, and Dean didn’t have exactly have fondest memories of it. There was the…table? Whatever this was, it was decidedly not a place for resting. Heck, even when he and Sammy were holed up in the road as kids, they always slept on motel beds—which could hardly be called _beds_ , but they were better than the Impala’s seats. (No offence to his baby, but he wasn’t a scrawny ten-year-old anymore.)

Dean instead searched for some cushions or something, but he only found cans of food, alcohol, bandages, and various weapons. All he had that was remotely soft was his jacket, but that was the last option.

Where did his future self sleep? Maybe he’d let Dean crash there. It was better than lying on a hard floor.

And they were going to be on the road at midnight? From what Dean could estimate, it was very much late evening, and maybe he could sleep on the way there, but like he told Cas _(his Cas, back home),_ he needed his four hours.

Dean opened the door. He was pretty sure that he remembered the way to Cas’ comfy cabin. He could pop in—assuming the guy wasn’t holding a “last night on earth” orgy—and ask directions to the Fearless Leader’s place.

He didn’t have to walk far—it was very close to the storage and communal room. There was the porch light shining brightly in the otherwise complete darkness, so Dean could see where he placed his feet. _Electricity?_  At the end of the world? Either the future was well-stocked—doubt it, since Chuck had worried about the dwindling food—or that Cas had some privileges. _Why not_ , he decided. Cas seemed like his oldest friend here and an angel to the boot. Why shouldn’t he get something nice for staying on Earth and helping watch Dean’s ass?

The light bounced off a metal padlock. That was also pretty interesting. A locked door equaled something precious, especially here. Supplies? Well, according to a small sign, there was also drinking water. That was a luxury in these times, Dean knew.

Apparantely, Cas had large and important duties, something Dean thought…well, _he’d_ be in charge of. Wouldn’t he be, in addition to leading reckless missions and checking over the food, be involved of guarding the pure water and the locked-up supplies? Maybe he delegated those to Cas. Dean could see that. If Sam was gone…

He pushed aside the beaded curtain and stopped.

His future self was sitting on the bed, jacket and boots thrown onto the orgy rug, and talking to Cas, who was closing the lid to a chest.

"…I _tried,_ you know that?” he was saying, clasping his hands around his kneecaps. “You know I tried.”

Cas turned around and placed a hand on a tense shoulder. “Dean,” he said. Dean couldn’t recall this version of Cas saying his name—only _fearless leader._ It sounded strangely stilted and soft, as if Cas rarely called him by his name. Something in his stomach gave a rough twinge at that thought. _Hello, Dean._ “I know you tried. But—”

"I _failed,"_  was the bitter snap, and Cas looked on wordlessly as his hand was roughly pushed aside. "Cas, I failed, and I destroyed the world."

"No, you didn’t. Lucifer—"

"Maybe Lucifer played a big role, but it’s my fault. I didn’t say yes."

Cas’ voice was weary but sorry, as if the two had discussed this many times. “You couldn’t have known. You—”

His other self sighed roughly and slid off the bed, beginning to pace the room in long, swift strides. “He won’t say yes. I know him— _me_ —and he won’t say yes, because he believes, somehow, that good triumphs evil and everything works out in the end and all that bullshit. He’s going to learn the hard way, and damnit, I’m just so _tired_ of the hard way.” He fell on his knees and wouldn’t look up, even when Cas knelt beside him and gripped his shoulder again. “All my fault, because I was so _stupid—_ ”

"Listen to me: you are _not_ stupid. Michael was playing games with you, _torturing_ you, even. Why would you say yes? You had faith in your brother and faith that the world would be saved. Dean, you _didn’t know_.” Arms wrapped around the slightly shaking man and squeezed. Dean watched, mutely, as his future self finally seemed to sink into the touch, surrendering. “The world’s gone to shit, but—”

"If you try to give me the _you can’t have a rainbow without rain_ bullshit, I’m kicking your ass.” He jerked away from Cas’ hold and practically leapt up, kicking at a coat rack. Green army jackets fell with a muffled slap against the floor, and then a candlestick—luckily, not lit—went flying across the room and smacked sharply against the window. “I _hate_ this.” Cas rose, arms raised, as the Buddha head was knocked to the ground, then two more candles and their stands. “There’s nothing good in this damn world, at _all_.”

To his surprise, Cas flinched as if he’d been struck across the face. Dean wasn’t used to seeing pain and surprise in his eyes. He sometimes wished Cas would be more expressive, but now that he was, Dean wanted to take it back. There was something raw but resigned, old hurt stripped away to reveal a bleeding wound, like a scab. He recalled his demand for this Cas to return him back to 2009, the way Cas turned his back on him and laughed hollowly, tilting his head back. Dean _knew_ that gesture, knew that if he closed his eyes, tears would fall, and that would be it. Dean _knew_ that you either had to laugh hysterically or let yourself burst out crying, and he always chose laughter.

Voice hollow, he spoke up: “I guess there isn’t, is there?”

That seemed to break the spell. The angry man froze, in the middle of tearing off the movie poster from the wall, and slowly released his hand. He bent down, picked up the Buddha head, put it back, and began cleaning up, methodically. Cas only watched, head never turning, blue eyes somewhat glazed but fixed on a single point on the ceiling.

When every item was put away, Cas walked to the bed and pulled back the bumpy, but nice-looking comforter, crawled in between the sheets. Dean assumed he was turning in for the night and that he could pretend he had just arrived and ask either one of them if he could have a place to sleep. But his other self hung up the jacket crumpled on the rug, slid his well-worn boots near the wall, and stared at something on the table: a shiny, decorative plate with a complicated design. He gripped the sides and _looked_ , and Dean could see, even from behind the beaded curtain, that he didn’t like what he saw.

Cas sat up. “Come to bed,” he murmured softly, patting the other side gently.

Dean froze, but his future counterpart didn’t. He toed out of his socks and slipped in easily beside Cas, lying his head down on a pillow. His eyes briefly closed, and Cas reached for the lamp on the nightstand. Dean’s nose was now touching one of the beads, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.

"Cas," a blurred voice muttered, head somewhat obscured by the blankets. A plaintative hand stretched out and closed around a light blue-clad arm. _"I’m sorry."_

Somehow, the weight was more just than wrecking Cas’ stuff. Dean felt something in his chest tighten and twist as Cas ran his fingers over the close-cropped brown hair. His expression was open, tender, and protective. And sad, too. Regretful, even.

"Me too," was all he said back, and the lights went out.

Dean crept back and silently padded his way down the stairs and back to the shed. He would use his jacket after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping by! You can find me as annaofaza on tumblr!


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